


Catching Snowflakes

by ElDiablito_SF



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 12DaysofDestiel, Angst and Feels, Canon Compliant, Christmas, Eventual Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 08:17:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2805779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElDiablito_SF/pseuds/ElDiablito_SF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas in the bunker and Dean wants a nice thing all to himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catching Snowflakes

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [12 Days of Destiel](http://12daysofdestiel.tumblr.com/). Happy holidays, fandom!

It’s been snowing for days. Dean figures the main entrance to the bunker must be long snowed in, he might have to attach a snow plow to Baby to ever get the hell out again. It’s lucky, he supposes, that they got fully stocked up on food before the snowstorm hit, especially with the three of them now residing at the bunker. 

Claire Novak - man, she might look like a teenage girl, but she eats like an anaconda. Dean likes that about her. He likes a lot of things about her: her spunk, her wit, her ability to survive. She’s a natural fit into their little family of misfits, except for the part where Dean just slaughtered whatever passed for her surrogate father, and Cas is still wearing what essentially _was_ her actual father, and well, Dean doesn’t really blame her for spending most of the day at the shooting range. 

Not exactly sure _what_ Cas was thinking leaving her with them like that. Then he took off, like he always does, before Dean even had the chance to remind him of his promise. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he said, but Dean’s pretty sure that angel time and human time don’t even coexist on the same plane. Still, he kinda hopes that when Cas does make an appearance, it’ll be to keep his word, and put Dean out of this misery.

So, imagine his surprise when instead of materializing behind him, all rageful and ready to smite, he finds Cas standing in the middle of the bunker’s library, propping up a Christmas tree.

“Your door was snowed in,” the angel says, by way of a greeting. “I cleared it,” he adds and takes a step back, admiring the fir tree before him.

“Cas, what the hell is this?” It’s a rhetorical question, and Dean can already anticipate the reply, although not the direction from which it will be delivered.

“It’s a Christmas tree, you ass,” Claire is leaning against the bookshelves, and for a moment, Dean forgets she’s not actually Cas’ real daughter.

“It’s a noble fir,” Cas speaks, fingers brushing along the fine needles as the scent of sap and winter fills the bunker. “It’s actually a pagan symbol, used many centuries ago to celebrate the Winter Solstice. It was coopted by the Christians, along with a lot of other pagan elements, such as the red and green color scheme, for example, and the mistletoe.”

“Thanks, Wikipedia,” Claire snarks and Dean bites his lip. He was about to say, “Thanks, Encyclopedia Britannica,” himself, but that would age him. 

“Yeah, Cas, we’ve done our share of Christmas lore research,” Sam chimes in.

“We know _what_ it is,” Dean finally speaks, having shaken off the memory brought to the fore by Sam’s statement, “but _why_ is it here?” Unless Cas is planning on staking him through the heart with a fir branch, he doesn’t really understand why all of a sudden ‘tis the season for _anything_. If you ask Dean, it’s the most _shittiful_ time of the year, and for the most part, always has been.

“Well, Dean,” the way Cas says Dean’s name is always so weighted and pregnant with meaning, no one else can imbue one syllable with quite so much gravitas, “As you know, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately.” 

He pauses, almost in anticipation of an interruption, but none comes. 

“About what I’m doing here. And where my rightful place might be. And Christmas, it’s… it’s a time to be with your family. And you and Sam are my family, so…” 

He looks back at his hands, where some stray needles are still stuck to his fingers, and Dean suddenly feels like helping the angel brush them off. 

“I wanted to do something nice for you, and for Claire, so I got this tree.” 

He looks up briefly, eyes brushing along Claire’s face, then falling back to his own palms. 

“I debated for a long time whether to get a real tree or a plastic surrogate. On the one hand, they say the plastic ones are more environmentally friendly, because you can reuse them. And they come in different colors, although I’m somewhat of a purist in that I think I prefer trees to be tree-like in their coloring. Purple just seems better suited to… well, Tinky Winky, I suppose.”

“Cas,” Dean finally cuts into the soliloquy. “The real tree is good, man.”

“I’m glad you agree. I do rather enjoy the smell of fresh tree needles.” He lifts his hands to his nose to inhale and for a moment Dean wonders what Christmas trees must smell like to an angel. 

“It’s an awesome tree, Cas,” Sam smiles one of his benevolent smiles. Sometimes Dean wonders where he came upon this inexhaustible well of good humor, especially in light of, well _things_. He scratches his arm where the Mark is indelibly burned into his skin, and shifts uncomfortably.

“Do we have any decorations?” Claire bounces up towards Castiel, whatever book she was looking at forgotten.

“We might,” Sam points towards the back of the bunker. “I think I saw some boxes in there that might actually have stuff. Wanna help me look?”

“Awesome!” She’s off down the corridor, behind Sam, leaving Dean and Cas staring uncomfortably at each other. Or rather, Dean staring at Cas, while the angel tries to avert his eyes, and paces laps around the tree, pretending to make sure that the stand is stable and the branches are all… properly fluffed.

“Cas.”

“Mmmm?”

“What’s this about, man?”

He knew when he had asked Cas to do him that solid at the diner that he was asking for too much. He took the angel’s silence for consent, but perhaps he’d been mistaken and what he had witnessed was his friend’s usual, stubborn resolve. But now, Cas can’t even look at him, and Dean isn’t sure he’s reading him correctly at all.

“Last Christmas on Earth, Dean.”

“Cas, you don’t know that. I’ve been there too - last Christmas on Earth. But, look, you yanked my ass out of Hell, and now, years later, here we are again.”

“Don’t be fooled by this,” Cas’ hand spans his body in a dismissive way. “I feel fine right now, but this grace is also borrowed. I’ll be gone sooner than you know. And you…” The way that Castiel’s jaw clenches and sets, Dean could swear the angel was angry. “You asked me to smite you, to _take you out_ , and, Dean, that might just take the very last shred of it. This grace. So, either way… Last Christmas.”

Dean didn’t mean for that to happen, so he opens his mouth to protest, only the angel’s hand quickly covers his lips. It is an echo of years ago, the first time Castiel placed his hand over Dean’s mouth, and betrayed everything he’d ever stood for - and all for Dean.

“Just, let me have this one nice thing. Before it all goes away.” Cas sounds tired. He _is_ tired. Dean had been too self-absorbed to notice, but he can see it all too clearly now. The fine lines around the angel’s eyes, around his mouth. Either this vessel is aging, or Dean’s beginning to see the glimpse of the real, millennial creature trapped in that mortal coil. 

Cas’ hand slides from Dean’s mouth and, before his friend can turn and walk away again, Dean takes his hand into one of his own and draws him down the corridor, towards his room.

“I want a nice thing too,” Dean says once the door closes behind him.

“Dean, there’s a child in the house, I don’t really think it would be appropriate…”

Dean laughs. Cas has gotten a lot better at reading innuendo. And, hell, with the looks he’s been freely shooting in the angel’s direction lately, who could blame him for jumping to that conclusion. Maybe a few years ago, yeah, Dean would’ve loved to get all _inappropriate_ , but now, with the Mark, and every part of him feeling like each minute is an uphill struggle of feigned normalcy, it would be too much of a risk. After all, Cas is probably the last person in the world he’d want to hurt. Well, top two anyways.

“Cas. Shut up. Lie down on the bed.” Dean takes a deep breath. “Here’s what’s gonna happen.” Cas tilts his head to the side, the gesture so familiar that it makes the dark recesses of Dean’s heart ache. “I’m gonna lie next to you. And I’m gonna put my arms around you, and you’re gonna put your arms around me, and you’re gonna… hold me. And you’re gonna shut up about it. Like, forever.” The gesture Dean makes with his index finger, slicing the air in front of Cas’ face, broaches no argument.

Cas shrugs off his coat, rolls up his sleeves, and for the longest time Dean can’t tear his eyes away from his surprisingly tanned forearms. He can’t help but wonder if this was the solar exposure from his human days or if Jimmy’s body always looked like that and he just failed to notice. Before he thinks better of it, Dean climbs on top of his bed, shoes and all, and turns towards the center of the mattress, shutting his eyes. He can feel the dip of the memory foam as another body climbs onto the bed, and then he feels the brush of Castiel’s hand along his own, before those long fingers come to rest at the nape of his neck, sending warmth radiating down Dean’s spine.

He scootches closer, until his body comes against the hard planes of the angel’s body, until Castiel’s arms snake around him, one pressing under his ribs, the other scooping over and across his back. Banishing all hesitation, Dean throws one leg over the angel’s hip, and now they’re as close as two people can get, while keeping their clothes on (which suddenly seems silly and terribly not thoroughly thought out), breath blowing warm and steady against the skin of each other’s necks. And it’s always struck Dean as odd that vessels continued to breathe even while occupied by angelic entities. Cas, it turns out, gives the best hugs. Dean learned that the hard way - the last time he was a demon, that is. Cas can, apparently, hug the devil right out of you. Dean snickers softly into Cas’ neck, and instead of a question, he feels his friend’s hand slide smoothly along his back muscles, stroking heat into each tendon, fingers barely grasping at shoulder blades.

Dean knows that’s not how he got cured - by Cas hugging the devil out of him. Only that’s the last thing he remembers before… well, before he remembered everything that came before. He remembers how it hurt, how it _burned_ to be held by the angel. So maybe now too, he can be saved, and safe again in Castiel’s embrace.

Dean is sorry he can’t remember the first time he must’ve been held this way by Cas. He wishes he could remember Cas coming for him in Hell. It’s a pity he can’t recall, how brightly he must’ve shone, resplendent in his angelic glory, how tightly he must’ve cradled Dean’s soul against his very own grace, as he raised him from perdition. Did he? Did he cradle Dean in his arms? And then, did he rebuild his body from scratch, from the ether? It suddenly seems very foolish to feel shy about this, to be embarrassed of wanting this. Dean can’t think of a safer place in the world for him to be than in Cas’ arms.

And it’s _hot_. Temperature hot, not boner hot (well, that too). The damned angel, he still burns so bright, Dean can feel sweat beginning to bead along his forehead, commencing to pool in the hollow of his neck, right between his collarbones. And suddenly he can’t help but want to get closer, to see if Cas is this tan everywhere, to learn if he’d still burn this hotly against his bare skin. And with Dean’s eyes now open, he can see Castiel’s eyes, like two stormy seas, boring into the very darkest pits of his soul, and he knows that there’s only one thing that he regrets never saying to him.

“Cas, you should stay. I need you to… to stay... with me.”

He can smell the fragrant scent of fir tree needles emanating from Cas’ hair.

“Of course,” his angel replies, as if there was never an option for him to refuse. And now Dean feels so stupid because he should’ve asked before, but he was always terrified the answer would be anything but “of course.” After all, what is Dean really, compared to the entirety of the universe at Castiel’s feet? What is Dean but a spec in the grand scheme of matter and time, but a pawn in the endless games between Heaven and Hell?

“You’re… it’s… really hot,” Dean mutters, his fingers finding the buttons of Cas’ overly starched shirt.

“Because you’re wearing too many layers,” Cas replies matter-of-factly.

“No doubt,” Dean agrees, fingers still pushing little round pegs through loops. Cas’ own fingers have found the collar of Dean’s flannel and are pulling it back, peeling his layers like the onion that he is. Dean knows he is - don’t peel too much, you’ll end up crying. Or _he’ll_ end up crying, either way, it all ends in tears.

Cas really _is_ tan everywhere, and Dean makes a mental note to explore that situation more later. In the meantime, he presses their bodies closer together, skin to naked skin, all clothing shed at the foot of the bed, like autumn leaves. Winter has come. Dean doesn’t know what it is he feels because it isn’t simple desire, it’s not something that can be stoked and sated with a little friction and few chosen words. But he doesn’t want it to end.

“You’ll stay?” Dean repeats, timidly. Castiel’s fingers are pressing against his skull, raking through his hair, pulling on it hard enough to force their eyes to meet again.

“Whatever you need,” the angel affirms.

“Then why have you never stayed before?”

“You never asked.”

Was it always this easy, Dean wonders. Was happiness really only a few syllables away? Or is this, too, just a fever dream? How many times can a man cursed find his soul carried to safety on the breeze of an angel’s wing? The dam bursts and with it so do Dean’s eye sockets. The onion has been peeled, and now he’s weeping, the drops of his tears falling only long enough to be scooped up by Castiel’s waiting lips.

“I can’t… I couldn’t…” Dean chokes out, but Cas’ arms and legs are still there to catch him in their web, that transformative cocoon into which you go as a caterpillar yet come out as a butterfly. 

“It’s okay. I’m here now.” _Now_ though might be too late. Dean’s eyelashes are heavy with the weight of his tears, and he’s not sure how many more of them Cas can really kiss away before he realizes that the salt of it is just too unbearable.

“Cas, I don’t want you to give up your grace to save me,” he whispers into the angel’s naked shoulder.

“We’ll find a way. We always do.”

Dean closes his eyes and breathes in that scent that has always been unmistakably Cas - he smells like a thunderstorm, like ozone and lightning, like the earth after a summer rain. This, this majestic, heavenly creature would sooner save him than smite him, and Dean remembers something else that he said to his angel once - _I’d rather have you, cursed or not_ \- and he smiles, until Cas can finally take it no more and kisses that smug grin right off his face.

Sam’s voice echoes in the distance as he and Claire apparently go to town on the Christmas tree. 

“We should..,” Cas says.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees.

There’s no use in wasting Cas’ mojo, they can get dressed again fast enough.

There isn’t enough tinsel, Claire complains, but the ornaments that they found in the storage room are bright and beautiful antiques. Soon enough snowflakes, shining orbs, and entire garlands of painted glass icicles decorate the tree’s branches. They even find a big star to grace the top, much to Sam’s chagrin, who insists that they need an angel tree topper, if only to mess with Cas as much as possible. Dean supposes it’s only fair since Sam did give them much needed privacy earlier.

“Come on,” he says, punching Cas in the arm for everyone’s benefit, “Let’s go see if the storm is over.”

The angel follows him up the stairs as Dean pops his coat collar up to protect himself from the elements. The door has been cleared, just as Cas said, and opens easily. Up above the bunker, the snowstorm has turned into gusts of snow flurries. All of Kansas appears covered in a thick blanket of down, but Dean can tell the worst is over. He picks up Cas’ hand and entwines their fingers together.

He watches as Cas faces the sky, opens his mouth, and tries to catch the errant snowflakes onto his tongue.

“What does it taste like?” he asks the angel.

“Water,” Cas replies, after careful consideration. “Two hydrogens to every oxygen.”

Dean laughs and sticks out his own tongue and waits until a snowflake lands on it, his hand safe from the frost as it’s tucked into the reassuring heat of Castiel’s hand.

“What do you think it tastes like?” Cas asks.

Dean’s still smiling like an idiot, but he won’t say it out loud. Instead, he leans over and presses his lips against Cas’ lips and closes his eyes again. It tastes like hope.


End file.
